


winter's solitude

by nocturmnskies



Category: Clone High
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Bad coping mechanisms, Depressing, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Five Stages of Grief, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Himbo JFK (Clone High), Hurt/Comfort, JFK Needs A Hug, Multi, Panic Attacks, Sleep Deprivation, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Social Anxiety, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Love, vent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26997787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturmnskies/pseuds/nocturmnskies
Summary: Any normal person would be asleep by now; warm and content in their beds as the lull of rain hammered down from the sky, ready to wake up early in the morning to face whatever may come in the day.JFK was not among those people. He hadn't even been among those people for the past few months.In which it’s been a sad few months for Jack and the memory of his best friend keeps haunting him from the dead of the night.He knows that he would do anything to see him again.
Relationships: JFK & Joan of Arc (Clone High), JFK/Joan of Arc (Clone High), slight JFK/Ponce "Poncey" de León (Clone High)
Comments: 75
Kudos: 187





	1. time moves so fast in every direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, hi! this is going to be my first ever published fanfiction and i’m going to admit that i have zero idea of what i’m doing and i’m so sorry if this is not good at all... but i’m going to try :)
> 
> anyway, now that i’ve said that, there are massive trigger warnings to disclose: don’t read this if you think you will be vulnerable to terrible coping mechanisms or suicidal thoughts/actions!! seriously bro, it’s not a fun time.
> 
> but anyway, i’m writing this as a coping mechanism because i’ve been having some really, really bad thoughts and habits that are resurfacing. i faced these same issues at around the same time last year and i found out that writing really helps me cope with all of these bad things coming into my head. so i’m doing just that again, but this time, since i’ve gotten really into clone high recently, i’ve decided that i kind of want to post these things that i want for the world to maybe enjoy?? i dunno, does that make sense? probably not, but fuck it. i hope you enjoy reading this emotional rollercoaster of mine :)
> 
> chapter title inspired by dandelion hands’ song “If I Stare At The Clock Long Enough, Will I Have The Time To Tell You Everything?”

Lightning struck through the night incessantly, and the lightning revealed itself as a blinding shock of white against the dark, inky sky. Thunder followed the lightning, breaking out in loud booms in the near distance. The icy and howling wind could be heard in the night, banging and clattering against the wooden paneling on each cookie-cutter house on the block. Hard, fat droplets of rain pounded against windows. The droplets raced down the glass panes only for a new abundance of rain to replace it.

Any normal person would be asleep by now; warm and content in their beds as the lull of rain hammered down from the sky, ready to wake up early in the morning to face whatever may come in the day.

JFK was not among those people. He hadn’t even been among those people for the past few months.

The death of his best friend had taken a toll on him, and no one was even aware of the degree. 

People had thought he was fine on the day he and all of his friends cleaned up the litter that remained from everyone trashing the school’s courtyard; the very place where Ponce had died.

And he _had_ been fine. He had been okay for a few days after he cleaned up the yard. On that first night, he had even gotten a full night’s sleep, much different from the grief-stricken nights where he hadn’t gotten any sleep. 

Things had been looking up for the clone; for everyone.

...

The nightmares had begun gradually, though.

Just slight flashes of discomfort. Winces in the night that slightly disturbed JFK’s slumber, but didn’t register the next morning when he woke up. A flash of feeling trapped, like he’s drowning. They were small and inconsequential. If anyone asked the next morning how he slept, he replied with “Fine,” because that’s how he remembered it. He had nothing to worry about.

But things got worse.

When he would normally just roll over and push the thoughts at bay, he was now wide awake in a cold sweat. The images lingered in his head and reappeared as soon as he shut his eyes. His body would seize up, and he gasped as if he hadn’t taken a breath for several minutes. Distorted glimpses of a familiar face flashed in his memory, reminding him of fears he’s tried so desperately to ignore. He can’t just roll over and go back to sleep anymore, and the silence of the night only makes his thoughts louder. 

JFK didn’t sleep.

He felt drawn out, and he was solely surviving on sudden and inexplicable bursts of energy that would pop up throughout the day. His efforts are commendable, but when he has to go to his track, field, or basketball meets, he can’t keep up with his classmates. Dark circles appear under his eyes, and he gets his ass handed to him consistently on the basketball court. He doesn’t spring back to his feet, but instead lays face down on the ground, thankful for the few seconds of rest. He thinks he could probably pass out then and there if Coach Roosevelt wasn’t shrieking at him to “Get up, you pansy!”.

He first knew he had a problem when he started falling asleep in his car in the school parking lot, waking up hours later and coming home to his fretful foster dads, and he had to apologize profusely for it.

“I’m, er-uh, not trying to worry you two,” JFK said when Carl and Wally talked with him. He had come home late for the fourth time that week, and they were starting to take issue.

“I swear, I’m not meanin’ to—”

“John.” Wally used that parental tone that made JFK’s stomach drop. It’s the tone Wally uses when he’s disappointed, and it flooded Jack with guilt. Both Wally and Carl looked at him with concern.

“I know you’re trying, and neither of us are accusing you of being rebellious.” Wally placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Tell us what’s wrong?”

JFK bit his lip. He felt immature and stupid. How can he tell his parents that he couldn’t sleep because he’s scared? That’s what five-year-olds say. He’s 16 and a clone of one of the most brilliant U.S. presidents; what could scare him anymore? (Other than finger guns—those things are _scary_.)

“Nothin’, I’m just…” JFK looked away and shrugged his shoulder out of his dad’s grasp. A hurt look flashed across Wally’s face but was quickly concealed by the same look of worry he’d been sporting since JFK got home.

“I, uh, think studying for tests and stuff is affecting me. My, er-uh, sleep pattern seems off… I’ve just gotta get it back on schedule.” Jack pulled a lie out of his ass at the last second and stared at his hands. Wally and Carl exchanged a look but neither of them acknowledged that their son just lied to their faces. Wally nodded and sighed.

“Okay, baby. I hope you get back on track,” Wally smiled, and then the topic shifted to what the family would want for dinner.

* * *

JFK, of course, had tried to get better sleep. He found himself giving in to his desires to sleep at night, and things had gone swell for a grand total of two nights all until the third night came, and he was scared out of his wits all over again. After that night, he finally decided that things would just carry on.

He continued to wear the lines and shadows under his eyes like a uniform, he continued to get shoddier and shoddier at sports, and he continued to show up home late.

Eventually, though, people grew accustomed to it. He’d provided the same answers to their questions concerning him over and over, and, eventually, people got tired of asking. The fact that JFK looked like a raccoon became accepted, and the fact that JFK had succumbed to Abe Lincoln’s level of basketball skill was as well. Wally and Carl were the least willing to get used to the changes, but, with time, they did too.

It almost felt like he’d always been like this. Jack had forgotten a time where he wasn’t plagued with nightmares so he just assumes they had never existed; his own mind gaslit him into submission.

And now, that brought him to the present. It was holiday break, and JFK was in his house all by himself as his parents slept. It was an ungodly hour—four a.m., he recalled—and he had a distant thought that he should be partying. Not watching-but-not-quite-watching random Tv shows, drinking old, stolen rum from his parents’ liquor cabinet, and basking in his depression.

He would go out and party, but partying isn’t really his thing anymore. Sure, he still went to them occasionally, but it’s normally only if someone dragged him to one (namely Cleo). Hell, he can’t even remember the last time he’d thrown a party, and he used to have parties every weekend. It’s just that, parties aren’t as fun anymore. They’re nothing like they used to be.

A few months ago, back when his horrible sleep began, he’d forced himself to go to parties. He wanted to have fun, to take his mind off of things that weighed him down like cinder blocks strung to his legs as he tried to swim in the ocean. And he _had_ distracted himself; but maybe too well.

He would drain every party’s supply of booze as he wrecked himself, making himself pleasantly devoid of thought yet a nuisance to his friends. He would wake up in odd places with no explanation as to how he got there, and killer migraines resided in the forefront of his mind as he had to make the trek home from wherever he was.

His wake-up call that he had to put an end to these habits was when Cleo had nearly had a fit when she and Abe hadn’t been able to wake him up from his alcohol induced slumber for _ten_ minutes. When he had finally been woken up, Cleo had informed him (after slapping him furiously for worrying her) of what had happened to make him like that. 

It had been the day after a particularly crazy party, and JFK had been much more of a mess than he had been at parties during that time. Apparently, he had been completely bipolar that night; going from dancing crazily at one minute to latching onto his ex-girlfriend as he cried about some nonsense she couldn’t understand the next.

It had been the scared look in Cleo’s eyes as she retold the story that opened JFK’s eyes to consider changing his ways. After she finished her story, JFK hugged her and promised that he would get better.

She’d smiled when he told her. “You better. It was getting to a point where I almost didn’t want to invite you to parties anymore.” Even though she had made her gratitude about herself, Jack could tell she was happy that he’d make better choices for himself. 

He was good at reading her like that.

_So much for that promise_ , JFK thought as he took another swig from the bottle of rum he was nursing. Sure, he wasn’t partying anymore, but he was drinking just as much—if not more—than he had been at those parties.

He couldn’t help it though. Things had changed so drastically this year that he had to find himself a way to cope. Was this the best way of going about it? JFK wasn’t sure. Probably not. But it was better than coming off as some sort of wimp and asking for help. He couldn’t do that. He just… couldn’t.

He finished that bottle of rum faster than he had expected, and he frowned as nothing came out when he tried to drink more.

“Damn,” he said to himself. Without even realizing it, he had drunk all the rations JFK had allowed himself so that it wouldn’t be noticeable to his dads that unaccounted for sums of alcohol were missing.

_Now what?_ Jack asked himself. Should he go out and get more? Or would liquor stores even be open at this time? It was, after all, 4:30 in the morning. And not only was there the problem of time, but there was also the concern of him driving in this state. He was drunk and, admittedly, not the best driver even when he was sober, so he didn’t want to cause any accidental harm.

Jack took a shaky breath as he rejected the thought of going out to get more. He probably wouldn’t be able to get any, drunk at four a.m. or not. He was so well-known in Exclamation that the cashier would likely see right through his lie of being 21.

“Fuck, this blows,” JFK said.

He sat there for a moment as he reveled in this self-pity. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself to do this, but he felt like he deserved it. Things were crazy for him.

But as an old re-run of a show JFK knew had been made in the 60s came on, meaning that the time was now five, he got up from where he was sitting on the floor of his living room. The boy turned off the Tv as he quietly gathered up all the bottles from off the floor, carrying them upstairs where he would be able to deposit them under his bed. It wasn’t the most creative way to hide the alcohol that he drank, but it worked, so who was he to nitpick?

Once he was done hiding the bottles, he had begun to feel the effects of drowsiness work its way on him. Only now that he was intoxicated he would allow himself to sleep. In the last month, he’d found a method to get at least  _some_ sleep without any bad dreams rousing him: he would get drunk to the point where his mind was moving at a quarter of its usual speed. That way, when he fell asleep, his sleep would be dreamless and he would manage to get some rest; rest that didn’t end in him waking up with a strangled scream making its way from his mouth. 

But like all things, the method came with its flaws, the most major one being the hangover that assaulted him the next morning. Most of the time, the hangover made him regret the sleep he had gained in the night, but at least the sleep lasted him three or so days worth of energy until he had to drink himself close to death yet again.

A yawn escaped Jack, and the teen changed out of his sweater and slacks in exchange for an oversized T-shirt for some band he didn’t even like and a pair of plaid pajama pants. 

By the time he was stepping into his bed, sleep was practically begging for him to give in to its temptation, the comfortable warmth of his bed immediately making his drowsiness all the more prominent.

Almost as soon as he laid his head on his pillow, he was out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway, if you liked this chapter, maybe consider giving it some kudos :)
> 
> and if you wanna see some clone high fanart, feel free to follow my instagram! @nocturmnskies over on there! <3


	2. invisible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The smell of bacon being cooked roused JFK awake the next morning. He opened his bleary eyes and sat up, stretching out all his muscles after hours of unuse. He looked around his room as if he was waking up for the first time in it._
> 
> * * *
> 
> It’s the next day, and JFK doesn’t know what to think of things.
> 
> Hell, he hardly ever does anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello you guys! here i am, coming back with another depressing update B)
> 
> in regards to the response to this work—holy shit, you guys are amazing!! so kind and sweet and i just want to send love to all of you <3 i’m glad to see you all like angst as much as i do!
> 
> honestly, not much of a tw today (enjoy that while it lasts lmao) but it will be kinda sad
> 
> chapter title inspired by dandelion hands’ song “Invisible” (in case you couldn’t tell, this band is very influential for me lol)

The smell of bacon being cooked roused JFK awake the next morning. He opened his bleary eyes and sat up, stretching out all his muscles after hours of unuse. He looked around his room as if he was waking up for the first time in it. He noticed how the pale winter sunlight streamed in through the window near his bed, and JFK winced as his headache pulsated due to the light shining into his room.

“Guess I, er-uh, forgot to close my curtains last night,” Jack said to himself, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed to get up.

After further stretching all the kinks out of his neck and back, JFK went over to close his curtains. The effect was almost immediate, and JFK sighed as the room was then bathed in darkness. Now that his headache had been lessened significantly, JFK changed out his clothes for something more casual and began his descent downstairs.

Once downstairs, he noticed that Wally was hunched over the stove, attentively making the bacon that JFK had smelled from upstairs. As JFK stepped on the last stair, said stair emitting the creak it always did, Wally looked away from the bacon he was making to shoot JFK a warm smile.

“Well, hello there, sleepy-head,” the man grinned.

Jack yawned. “Er-uh, ‘morning Dad.”

“Good mornin’ to you too, sugar,” Wally said. He turned back to the bacon he was making, still keeping up the light conversation they were having. “How’d you sleep last night?”

JFK moved to sit at the kitchen counter, watching his dad make the bacon. “Fine,” JFK said. He left it at that, unsure of how else to answer him. It seemed like he always said “ _fine”_ to that question.

“That’s good,” Wally replied anyway, even though he had continuously heard the same answer from his son about how he’d slept time and time again.

They comfortably fell out of the conversation, with Wally focusing on making the food, and JFK peering over at the Tv that was playing. The news was on, something that didn’t particularly catch his interest, but it was at least something good for him to zone out on without seeming odd for doing so.

Suddenly, a plate of bacon and eggs was placed under his head, and Jack jolted to see Wally standing behind him.

“Here you go, baby,” he smiled at his son.

“Oh, er-uh, thanks, Dad!” JFK said, grinning at his dad. Wally patted him on the shoulder as JFK dug into his meal.

It was good food, JFK thought. Though, Wally’s food was always good.

As JFK scarfed down his meal like a glutton, he heard the indicative creak of the last stair that someone was there. He turned around to see Carl, looking as though he had just woken up.

“Oh, good mornin’, honey!” Wally said. He was back at the stove, preparing more food for himself and his husband. 

“Good morning, Dad,” JFK chimed in.

Carl shot the two of them small smiles as he walked into the kitchen. “Good morning you two.” 

JFK almost felt like Carl looked at him differently than normal, feeling judging eyes on him. But maybe he was just imagining it, as Carl looked away in favor of joining his husband at the stove, and Jack looked back to his meal as the two kissed, getting all touchy-feely with one another. 

His cheeks heating up at the sight of his parents’ displays of affection, JFK shoveled the last of his food into his mouth.

Standing up from his spot, JFK cleared his throat, still staring down at his now empty plate. “Well, I think I’ll be, er-uh, heading upstairs now.” He glanced up from his plate at Wally, giving him a small smile. “Uh, thanks for the food, Dad. It was really good.”

Wally turned away from his significant other, sending him a grin. “You’re quite welcome, baby. But you don’t have any plans for today?” 

JFK sighed, hugging his arms to his chest. Ever since the Snowflake Day holiday break had begun, Wally had asked him that every day. It was almost as if his foster-father was guilting him over his social life that had, quite frankly, gone down the toilet.

“Er-uh, I don’t really know,” Jack finally said. Wally frowned at him and looked like he wanted to say more, but dropped it when he saw how uncomfortable JFK looked with the subject.

“Well, okay baby. Just know we love you,” Wally said gently.

Carl nodded at what his husband said, shooting JFK just as warm of a look as Wally was sending him.

JFK nodded quickly, his face reddening once again, and mumbled an “I love you too,” before turning away quickly, walking up the stairs to his room.

* * *

It was around two-thirty when JFK got a call on his flip phone from Cleo. He’d been trying to put a dent in his over-the-holiday schoolwork for once when his flip phone started buzzing. Immediately abandoning that bore of a pastime, he answered the phone without even seeing who it was.

“‘Ello?” He said into the phone.

“Hey, JFK!” Cleo’s voice answered back.

“Oh, er-uh, hi Cleo.” Jack leaned back in his desk chair, looking up at his bedroom ceiling. “What’s up?”

“Well, I was thinking about you coming over to my house. Everybody’s here, y’know—even that weirdo Gandhi—so I figured, why should we leave you out?” Cleo answered back nonchalantly.

“Oh, I uh—”

“Great, see you here!” Cleo said. 

“But I—”

It was no use, as she no sooner hung up on him, forbidding him from saying anything else. JFK sat there with his eyebrows furrowed for a full five seconds before finally closing his phone. 

What just happened?

It took a minute for Jack to realize that he was now expected to show up at Cleo’s house within the next five or so minutes, so JFK stood up, feeling no less confused than he had a minute ago.

Well, he guessed that meant he could tell Wally that he actually _did_ have plans for the day.

* * *

When JFK arrived at Cleo’s house, nothing much happened. Sure, there were the first five minutes of “hey, how are you doing?”s and “it’s been so long since I’ve seen you”s being passed around, but other than that, JFK was pretty much left alone. He didn’t contribute much to any conversation and was doing the equivalent of standing in the corner during a party for the entirety of his visit to Cleo and Joan’s house.

He guessed that just made sense though. Even though they had all gotten a bit closer ever since Ponce had passed away, Jack was well aware that he wasn’t really anyone’s friend here. Sure, maybe he and Cleo were close, but that was in the strained yet caring ex-boyfriend/ex-girlfriend way. And Gandhi seemed to like JFK, said boy liking Gandhi just as much, but Abe and Joan were… difficult. Both took much more effort to be read by the presidential clone. 

When it came to Abe and where JFK stood on him, Jack’s feelings were muddled. The jealousy of Abe and Cleo being together was still there (even though JFK was now over Cleo) but the warmth JFK felt towards the other clone when Abe had comforted him after Ponce had died was also present. So perhaps JFK was fond of Abe. Not exactly friends, but not at all enemies like they had been earlier that year. JFK was almost certain that Abe felt the same too.

Joan was an entirely different matter. JFK wasn’t sure if Joan even liked him. Sure, they got along fine now—now that he wasn’t sexualizing her every two minutes—but the way JFK would sometimes see her looking at him was confusing for the boy, and she looked as if she didn’t know what to think of him. Jack knew exactly what he thought of her, though; he thought she was smart, kind, attractive, and just a real knock-out Betty. If it were up to him, JFK hoped that she liked him, at the very least platonically.

Anyway, even if he was friends with everyone there, it certainly didn’t feel that way. He had tried to converse with the others, but when he did, he felt like he was… left out. Like nothing he said mattered. Eventually, he stopped trying and sat in a chair that was situated against a wall. It was thirty minutes into him sitting there with no one saying _anything_ to him that he realized, ultimately, no one had been interested in what he wanted to say to begin with. As he sat there, he figured that Cleo had probably felt guilty about leaving him out and had invited him there to feel better about herself, not because she genuinely wanted his presence.

There was a moment, though, where he had a sliver of hope that someone cared.

He was still sitting in the damn chair when it happened. He was glancing around the room, trying to spot any new change to Cleo’s room—a room he had seen a hundred times, be it while they hung out or when they had been having sex—when his and Joan’s eyes met each other’s.

Joan had been sitting on her bed the entire time JFK had been there, and she was reading a rather large book. As they met each other’s eyes, JFK had studied her facial expression; she was worrying at her lower lip, her eyebrows were knit together, and she had an intense look in her eyes as she stared at Jack. 

Jack realized that she must’ve been looking at him for a while when they met eyes because as soon as she realized they had done so, Joan’s eyes widened before quickly shooting down to the pages of her book that she was reading.

JFK waited for her to do anything but after a minute of nothing, JFK’s heart dropped. He had expected for her to do… _something_. Maybe she would’ve hopped off her bed and walked over to JFK, engaging him in a conversation, or let him know that he was wanted by at least one person in the house, or maybe even just _smile_ at him; not look away immediately like she was ashamed she had been caught staring at him. 

And yeah, that _~~really~~ _kind of hurt, but he tried to ignore that pain by snuffing it out completely. He kept a dumb and empty smile on his face the whole time he sat there alone—even when he wanted everything to melt away—and was still smiling that blank, meaningless smile of his when he left for the night.

The hurt of being ignored for the entirety of the visit was burning at the forefront of his mind as he got into his van. It’s something he doesn’t think he’ll be able to forget about for a while.

* * *

When JFK got home, he rushed through the house, ignoring every word that was said to him. He felt bad for being rude, but he felt even worse about being left out of something he didn’t even want to _go to_.

Jack ran upstairs, dodging all the questions his dads asked him. He slammed the door behind him, locked it, and buried himself underneath his covers. Tears were welling up in his eyes, but he didn't feel the urge to try to hide them, not now.

He was completely alone and invisible, and he didn’t know why.

He felt like he was at war with the world, screaming at the top of his lungs only for no one to hear him.

And that, he thinks, is one of the saddest feelings in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, if you liked this chapter, maybe give some kudos? if not, uh... idk, curse me out in the comments or something, idc
> 
> if you want to see my mediocre clone high art, check out my instagram account, @nocturmnskies =D


	3. the sun is hidden behind the clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When JFK finally came out from under his covers the next day, he realized that he was sick. Some great realization to come to first thing in the morning, huh?_
> 
> * * *
> 
> JFK and his dads have a talk that gets a bit messy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey you lovely people. i really don’t have a lot to say rn but i do want to mention that i’m not 100% thrilled with this chapter but i need to get it out or else i’ll obsess over it for way too long lol. hopefully my dislike for it is just me being a perfectionist and it doesn’t translate to you all. anyway, no tws :)
> 
> chapter title inspired by Teen Suicide’s song “no, the moon”

When JFK finally came out from under his covers the next day, he realized that he was sick. Some great realization to come to first thing in the morning, huh?

His nose was all of a sudden stuffy, and his eyes burned if he so much as opened them. His whole body was heated up and he had a migraine that was even worse than yesterday’s hangover.

He’s well aware that his lack of sleep has considerably weakened his immune system, and he’s pretty sure the alcohol isn’t doing him any favors either. But it’s not like he could do anything about that.

He stayed in bed all day, just closing his eyes but not _daring_ to let himself go to sleep. His nightmares were bad enough when he’s healthy, what would happen to his dreams when he was sick and delirious?

His plan to stay in bed all day was ruined by Wally calling him downstairs. He tried to ignore it, pretending like he couldn’t hear him, but it’s useless when he heard Wally come upstairs and walk over to his door.

“Jack? Can you please come downstairs? Your father and I would like to speak with you.”

It took JFK a full minute to respond. “But, er-uh, Dad, I think I’m sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie, but we all need to have a talk right now. Please come downstairs.”

JFK sighed and listened as Wally retreated downstairs. He groaned as he moved out from under his covers, wincing at how sore and sweaty he was.

He’ll just be down there for a little while, he thought. His dads will just want to talk to him about all sorts of arbitrary subjects and then he’d be able to go back to his room; he could do this. He was a Kennedy.

So JFK slowly but surely made his way downstairs, gripping to the rail of the stairs like a lifeline. Eventually, he had crept to the bottom, only working up a slight sweat in the process. 

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he could see Wally and Carl waiting for him at the dinner table. They looked over at him as he entered the room, and Wally furrowed his brows, no doubt taking in his son’s messy appearance.

“Oh, baby, you _do_ look sick…” Wally said with a frown. Turning to Carl, he said, “should we all just talk at a different time, or—?”

“N-no,” JFK said, though shakily. His dads looked over at him again and JFK shook his head. “No,” he said, firmer this time. “I can, er, sit through a conversation.”

Wally frowned but nodded anyway. “Okay, baby. Whatever you say.”

The clone made his way over to the table, sinking into a seat immediately. He acknowledged how his parents gave one more glance at one another before Wally began to speak.

“Well, Jack, there’s something we need to talk to you about.”

“Okay?” JFK said. 

“...While you were at your friend’s house yesterday, I went upstairs to your room to hang your clean clothes...” Wally said. He sighed before finally meeting JFK’s eyes, something he had neglected to do so far the duration of the conversation. “...and, JFK, I found your stash.”

JFK sat there with all the blood draining from his face. _The bottles,_ he instantly thought, his mind going haywire. The liquor bottles… _God,_ he knew he should’ve hidden them in a better place! How _dumb_ was he?!

“My er-uh, my what now?” He said, playing dumb. 

Carl leveled him with a look that clearly said it saw through his naïveté. “The bottles of liquor you’ve been stealing from us? Does that ring a bell?”

JFK laughed nervously, the sound carrying through the silent room like a scream in the dead of night. “Er, no?”

Wally shook his head at his son. “John, please don’t lie to us. We know you’ve been drinking our liquor. Carl even heard you downstairs the other night.”

And now JFK remembered that strange look Carl had sent him during breakfast the other day. The Kennedy practically cursed himself—how could he have been so foolish? Everything he had been hiding so flawlessly over the past month was all crashing down with JFK standing in the center of it all.

“I’m not lying to you guys,” JFK said. His voice was low and almost a whisper, and he avoided his foster parents’ eyes.

The sound of a fist slamming against the table startled JFK out of his self-pity. Expecting the person who had slammed his fist to be Carl, he was stunned to see that it was Wally who had done so. When he looked at Carl, even he seemed surprised by his lover.

“Stop lying to us, young man!” Wally exclaimed, his face wrinkled in a way that perfectly displayed his annoyance. “You know perfectly well that I hate being lied to.”

“I’m not lying—!” JFK tried to say but was cut off by Wally.

“You’ve just been so different lately—you hardly seem like yourself anymore! But anytime Carl or I express concern for you, you just keep saying the same damned things every time and I’m getting sick of it!”

JFK eyed his normally easygoing father with apprehension—he’d never seen Wally like this.

“Wally, I think you might need to calm down,” Carl said, placing a hesitant hand on his husband’s shoulder.

Wally turned to face him, Carl practically cowering as the angry man’s attention was on him. “What? I’m angry and I have every right to be! Aren’t _you_ frustrated?”

“Well, yes—”

“Then act like it!”

They both faced JFK then, who was starting to regret that he’d even come home last night—he could’ve very easily stayed in his van instead. Maybe he could’ve avoided this.

But… no. _No,_ he thinks, _I couldn’t have._ This has been a long time coming for him.

“John, your father and I are upset by this behavior of yours. We both know that you’re a good kid, so we just want to know what’s going on,” Carl said, Wally nodding along as he spoke.

The careful tone Carl used as he addressed him suddenly lit a fire in JFK. It was as if Carl thought of him as a weak, defenseless animal who he had to approach gently as to not scare off. JFK grit his teeth and glared at his parents.

“There’s nothing goin’ on,” JFK said firmly. “You two are just meddlin’ in business that neither of you has a right to.”

“We’re just worried about you, John!” Wally cried. “It’s obvious that something is going on that we don’t know about! I mean, you look horrible these days, like you haven’t slept in years! And you always seem so distant… We have to practically drag you out of your room nowadays!”

“Please, son,” Carl said. “We’re just concerned about your well-being.”

“Well, er-uh, stop!” JFK said. He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, feeling his rage boil over him. “I’m fine, okay? I’m not like you guys—I’m not some sorta depressed pansy like you two are. I’m a fucking Kennedy!”

When JFK opened his eyes, he was met with a look of hurt on Wally. Carl looked equally offended but more angry than hurt.

There was a stillness after JFK said those words. There was immediate regret, and it screamed its presence in JFK’s mind. 

“Son, you have gone too far this time,” Carl said, scowling. He gave JFK a look that spoke of his hurt.

JFK felt his breath catch in his throat. “I-I’m sorry, I, er-uh, I didn’t mean it!” He really didn’t—he loved his dads and he didn’t mean to hurt them! He was just angry and tired, and he didn’t mean for the outburst to happen. 

“Stop,” Carl held up a hand, cutting him off. “Go to your room. We wanted to discuss this issue civilly and hear your side of the story but it’s clear we won’t be doing that.”

Wally looked away from JFK, snapping out of his hurt stupor. “I think it’d be best for all of us to… have a break for us to cool down. But John,” he said, his eyes trained on his hands splayed out in front of him, “...you’re grounded. This lying and deceit is something neither one of us will tolerate.”

“But… I—” JFK’s voice broke. “...It’s Snowflake day break. You can’t do that…” 

It wasn’t like JFK was going to be partying—he knew that. He shouldn’t be as affected by the news that he was grounded, since he spent most of his time in his room anyway. But it was the idea that he _had_ to be in his room that he took issue with. It was the idea that he couldn’t even drive off somewhere alone and collect his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Wally said, and despite how hurt he sounded, JFK could see that he meant it. “But there needs to be some change around here. And I think here is where we start.”

JFK stared at Wally’s sad expression and then Carl’s stoic expression before getting up from his seat. He wordlessly climbed up the stairs and entered his room. It was as if he had been drained of all emotion, and honestly, JFK didn’t know what to think of that.

He laid in his bed, looking up at the ceiling for the rest of the day. He ignored Wally when he came up to JFK’s bedroom door and told him dinner was ready, and numbly listened to him walking downstairs after standing at the door for a minute without any answer.

He realized when he silently turned down Wally’s offer to eat, that he hadn’t eaten anything in forty-eight hours. The thought, oddly, caused no huge reaction, nothing like he expected.

Though it was a long time for him to not eat, he was getting used to it—his stomach had shrunk and as had his appetite. He was thinner and weighed less than he had in a long time, but he couldn’t muster up enough energy to feel bothered by it. 

He guessed that, like all the changes he’d grown accustomed to, this habit was becoming normal for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! if anyone’s thinking this chapter was a bit less exciting, don’t worry, things will only be picking up from here. can’t promise when i’ll post the next chapter, but it’ll be coming!
> 
> anyway, i hope you’re having a good day/night!!


	4. last words of a shooting star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was nine o’clock the next morning when JFK finally succumbed to his hunger. He was starving and rather thirsty, so he walked downstairs, though nervously. ___
> 
> * * *
> 
> JFK fucks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovelies! this chapter is a fucking woozy, and i’m not sure how i feel about it but i do know that 100% of it is coming from my heart and my emotions, and really, that’s all i want.
> 
> now, with that said, tws are definitely going to have to be stated. this chapter contains vomiting and suicidal thoughts! not only that, but there are graphic descriptions of overdosing. please, tread lightly if you think you are prone to being triggered by these things! if you wish to skip past that part, go ahead and read only the first segment of this chapter.
> 
> please be safe!!! i love and care for you <3
> 
> chapter title inspired by Mitski’s song “Last Words of a Shooting Star”

It was nine o’clock the next morning when JFK finally succumbed to his hunger. He was starving and rather thirsty, so he walked downstairs, though nervously.

As Jack walked down the last stair, he sniffed through his stuffy nose and peered into the kitchen. Wally was at the stove again and Carl was sitting at the dinner table, reading a newspaper. 

He could tell that the air in the room shifted when he entered the kitchen, and he averted his eyes when Carl looked up from his newspaper to squint at him. JFK couldn’t read his foster dad’s expression as he did so, which made him even tenser.

Even though Wally was making breakfast, Jack bypassed the meal being cooked and instead entered the pantry to grab himself a granola bar and a water bottle.

JFK could see Wally staring at him out of the corner of his eye as he got the two items. The man looked as though he wanted to say something but was holding it back. It didn’t matter though, because as soon as JFK noticed the way Wally was looking at him, he was already on his way back to his room.

The clone sighed when he closed the door to his room, leaning against the door as he sunk to the ground.

That had been so _awkward._ Not a single word had been said the entire time he was there, such a far cry from just two mornings ago.

But what was he expecting after the outburst he made last night? To be doted and loved on like a child? Yeah, he didn’t think so.

Jack ate his small breakfast in silence. He could hear the clatter of utensils on plates from downstairs, but he didn’t dare envy the meal his parents were eating—he’d chosen this for himself.

Even with how much his stomach had shrunk, the food wasn’t nearly enough to appease him. However, the water he’d gotten did an okay enough job of filling him.

It was a little while after Jack had finished eating that he got another call on his phone. 

Unlike the last time—where Jack had been forced to come to a get-together that no one had even wanted him there for—JFK carefully checked who was calling him before answering.

It was Cleo (of course it was—she was the only one of his friends who even bothered with him anymore), so JFK prepared himself before accepting the call.

“Hey, Cleo.”

“Hey, JFK,” Cleo said. He could hear the smile in her voice as she said hi.

“What do you, er-uh, want?”

“Wow, you’re cutting straight to the point. Can’t a gal just call a friend?” 

“Uh, no?” JFK said.

Cleo gave a huff of amusement. “Fair enough. Okay, look, the four of us—me, Joan, Abe, and Gandhi—were going to go out to the Grassy Knoll and we wanted to know if you wanted to come too?”

JFK was about to make a rather sarcastic comment about them ‘wanting’ him to come, but he held his tongue. He was already in hot water with his parents, he didn’t want his only remaining friend to hate him too.

“Sorry Cleo, but I can’t come,” JFK said. “I’m, er-uh, kinda grounded right now.”

JFK heard Cleo groan at him over the phone, but she sounded fond of his antics. “What did you do this time, Kennedy?”

Jack bit his lip. “I’d, uh, rather not tell ya. But, yeah. I can’t go.” 

“Well, that’s a shame. Y’know, Joan was actually asking about you yesterday.”

_That_ caught JFK’s attention. “Er, what?”

Cleo chuckled, continuing. “Yeah, she couldn’t shut up about you. It was ‘JFK this’ and ‘JFK that’ all day yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, I love you, but there’s only so much talk of you I can take.”

Jack listened as Cleo went on, and his eyes widened. She moved on to other topics, but the idea of Joan going on about him was reverberating in his head.

Did Joan… care about him?

“Anyway, JFK, I should probably be getting ready now. I wish you could’ve come with us!” Cleo said.

“Uhm, yeah. Yeah, same here,” he said, trying to sound convincing.

“Okay, well, bye JFK. It was nice talking with you.”

“Yeah…” he said. “Nice talkin’…”

They hung up, and soon Joan returned to his mind. Was she legitimately talking about him yesterday, or was that all something Cleo had made up? Though he didn’t see the point of making it up if she had, so maybe Joan _had_ been thinking about him.

The idea of Joan talking about him makes him feel almost giddy. A smile comes to his face when he thinks about it, and a comforting warmth floods to his chest. 

It’s a warmth, he realizes, that he hasn’t felt the effect of ever since Ponce had died. He doesn’t know what to do with that particular realization, but that has to mean something… right?

JFK isn’t sure, so he doesn’t invest too much stock in it. He’s just happy that someone in his life seems to care about him—in these times where JFK hasn’t been himself in a _while,_ it fills him with a joy that he can’t even begin to describe.

* * *

It was later that night when JFK decided to clean up his room.

It was late (3:51 a.m., his alarm clock read), and Jack was bored out of his mind. It was tough staying up for twenty-four hours, that he knew, but he was relearning how much harder it was when he had no means of distraction.

So, he distracted himself.

His room wasn’t that messy, certainly not clean by any means though, so there was some clutter that he needed to tidy. He set to work on sorting things out, organizing things as he pleased.

It was pleasant work. It wasn’t a stressful job, but the thought of what he was doing was just enough to keep the void of thoughts from overwhelming him. 

However, as he had been cleaning out his closet, hanging and folding clothes as he came across them, he saw a box hidden underneath a pile of dirty clothes he had neglected to wash that caught his interest. Peering down at it, he couldn’t remember the existence of such a box, so... why was it in his closet?

JFK brought the box out into the open and sat on the floor. Curiosity peaked at him as he fiddled with the cardboard lid, his fatigue noticeably reducing his motor functions as he grasped and groped at the box. Finally, he had gotten the lid off of the box, placing it to rest at his side as he turned to look down at the innards of the box.

A face that haunted all of his nightmares stared back up at him.

Jack widened his eyes, staring down at the box. The memories of the box—coming up with the idea for it, making it, placing things he saw fit in it—came back to him at the speed of a galloping stallion.

This was a box that JFK had made in sixth grade, he recalled that much. He’d been doing what JFK had been doing prior to finding the box just now, cleaning out his room, when he’d come across what felt like a gallery of Ponce and the things the two had ever done together. Finger paintings by Ponce and JFK from kindergarten stood out to him, as did old notes that they’d passed to each other in class, and cringe-inducing yet endearing pictures and videos of the two goofing off. 

As soon as he’d come across these things—these _treasures_ —his sixth-grade self had had the surprisingly brilliant idea of forming a containment unit for all of these precious memories. That way, he would know exactly where these things were when he ever desired to look at them once again.

He hadn’t even touched this box since his freshman year. He knew why though; freshman year had been the year of becoming macho and manly, of rejecting any childish or girly habits you still had, and his younger self had pushed away these memories as if having fond times to look back over were for chumps. 

_I was so_ ** _stupid_** , he thought as he looked back over his past. Then again, Jack thought that himself from just a month ago was stupid as well—call it character growth or self-deprecation; JFK didn’t understand the difference.

Shaky hands reached into the box, pulling out the first item that had looked up at him.

When he’d first opened the box to see a photograph staring up at him, he had immediately known that the face in it was Ponce, even though it’s been months since JFK has actually seen him (other than in his dreams). He had spent so many years of his life attached to Ponce’s hip to just forget his face after a few months.

Ponce (and the JFK who’s slinging his arm around his shoulder) looks younger here. No stubble, no face lines, not even the leather jacket he had worn so frequently up until he died. They both had softer, more rounded faces. Baby fat, JFK thinks to himself. 

Taking in their appearances, he sees the extra few inches Ponce has over on the young JFK, and he remembers how the other boy had proudly gloated about the full three inches he had over JFK when he had just gotten a growth spurt, something that the younger JFK had been peeved by for the many years it had taken for him to catch up. At least when he finally had, _he_ had been the one to flaunt the three inches gained.

JFK felt tears burning in his eyes as he looked into Ponce’s happy face in the photo. It seemed so cruel that _Ponce_ of all people was taken away from everyone—from JFK—so soon. 

“P- _Ponce_ ,” Jack croaked, his voice fragile and soft, “why did ya have to _leave me_? I’m a wreck without you, pal…”

JFK almost wished that he had been even more sleep deprived—then, in his sleepless stupor, he might’ve hallucinated Ponce right then and there, a loving presence like none other to comfort him. It’s happened a few times before, mostly on the worse nights, the nights he particularly struggled with. 

It had always been soothing to JFK, seeing Ponce’s figure. Seeing his best friend meant benign affection, something that was everlasting and pure. Seeing him still continued to be soothing, even if Ponce looked worse for wear and was transparent. Those two facts did nothing to put a damper on the relief Ponce gave him, genie, ghost, or _whatever_ this new Ponce was, or not.

But now he had no Ponce. Not even a Ponce that lived inside of his head.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

The gentle cries he’d been emitting slowly turned into long, suffering weeps, his chest shaking as he tried to keep himself quiet.

He felt as if he was drifting through life with no purpose, no intentions. He felt incomplete, unfulfilled, and something pessimistic and disgusting told him he’d stay this way forever. That _nothing_ the _stupid_ clone could ever do would fill that empty spot that glared at JFK from within the inner recesses of his mind and soul.

Blood was beginning to pound in Jack’s ears. His heart felt restless in his chest like it was searching for a way out through his mouth. The photograph of the younger Ponce and JFK was still in his hands, he realized, and he quickly flicked it away from him, watching with dismantled vision as the polaroid slid from his fingers and stopped a few inches away from him. He’d had to put it away, he couldn’t stand the touch of slick glossiness of the photograph. He closed his eyes—he can’t look at the picture, can’t bear to stand himself—and shut himself in black.

He knew things were escalating far too quickly; his breaths were coming in and out in panicked gasps, his mouth felt dry like sandpaper, and his mind felt like it had completely departed from his body.

His thoughts were scattered and irrational but they sent him into a frenzy nonetheless. His emotions were erratic—all at once, he was feeling the wrath of vengeful anger, the sickly cling of sorrow, the breath-stifling fog of confusion—and they left him stranded on a metaphorical island surrounded by his own intrusive thoughts.

One thought remained clear against the static-like depths of his mind, however.

He thinks, no, _knows_ , that he should’ve been the one to die—not _Ponce._ Ponce had been good and kind, warm and smart, all of the things JFK wasn’t. Things should’ve gone much better for Ponce in life. He should’ve gone on to live a successful life, live up to—and maybe even past—the name and legacy of his clone father.

As for JFK… nothing would ever go well for JFK. His unfortunate fate should’ve been solidified by dying in Ponce’s place.

JFK shuddered and opened his eyes. He was laying on the floor on his side, and his arms felt weak like lead. He sat up, stumbling to move to his bed when he felt it; the telltale lurching of his stomach that he was _about to be sick_.

His eyes widened and in a split second, JFK used the small ounce of energy he had into launching himself off the floor, rushing out of his room and into the bathroom where he promptly vomited into the sink.

The sounds escaping him were horrid and the chunks of his partially digested food from his measly dinner coming up his throat felt even worse. His stomach contracted painfully as he heaved up chyme and bile. There was an onslaught of tears and mucus streaming down his face as the vomiting became even more wretched.

Coughing once he was done, JFK leaned against the sink cabinet and sunk to the ground, where as he sat there his stomach gave another threatening rumble. He felt dreadfully weak and he couldn’t even lift up a hand to wipe away the dribble of drool-mixed vomit that had fallen down his chin.

Shivering, Jack sat there in the darkness of the bathroom, the cold of the tile sinking deep into his bones, settling like a parasite, despite the fact that he felt like he’d been left to boil in the fiery pits of hell.

He was there for only a second before dragging himself off the floor and unsteadily getting to his feet.

JFK barely knew his own face in the mirror. He looked so much older than sixteen, he realized. His greenish-grayish eyes were dark and bloodshot from so many nights of unrest. His nights spent sitting up and watching any show that would distract him and drinking hard liquor until dawn showed now. His hair was unruly, and blemishes marked his face like they never had. Jack stood there, staring at his face in something akin to horror.

“ _This_ is how I’ve been lookin’?” He asks his reflection with alarm, touching the unsightly marks that litter his cheeks. His reflection doesn’t answer back, and he only continues to observe his face with growing feelings of unease pooling in his gut.

“...You look like a zombie,” he says, finally, and Jack can’t bear to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

He was 14 the first time he thought of… _it_.

Of committing suicide.

He’d always talked himself out of it, always found a way around it, always found a reason. 

But he was _so_ _desperate_ now.

He knew it was a collection of factors that made suicide so appealing to him now; he finally knew that his ‘friends’ weren’t really his friends, his parents hated him, and his _best friend_ —the only person JFK had ever truly connected with— _was dead._

There was no longer a list of reasons why he should stay—reasons why he shouldn’t die—that outweighed the ones saying he should.

He didn’t want to screw things up anymore. He was alone and every bit of that loneliness was all his fault. Jack was like a pathetic Icarus of the modern-day; he’d flown too close to the sun.

As he stood there, raking a trembling hand through his greasy hair, he knew that the real John F. Kennedy would be horribly disappointed in him. He’s pushed away all of the people he loved and he’s sabotaged the Kennedy name, dirtying it with some pisspoor version of someone who can’t be copied.

Because the fact remained that JFK and his clone father were nothing alike, save for the same blood running through them. They had been raised under different circumstances, and from Jack’s experience, he knew that that factor alone—growing up with a different environment, different lifestyle, different people—could make one person and turn it into two different people entirely.

His eyes locked on his reflection’s eyes. There was a glint of acceptance in his eyes, and it was that look that solidified what Jack knew he must do.

Now… how should he do it?

As he looked around the bathroom in thought, his eyes drifted to the prescription Restoril pills Carl had for his insomnia.

A lightbulb went off in his head.

Overdosing was a pitiful way to die, even for suicide, he thought. There was no bang, no impact, nothing making his measly mark on the world. Nothing but the damage being done to your insides as you drift away peacefully with the knowledge of what you’re doing. What you’ve _done._

For a president, dying of an overdose is laughable; a pathetic way to die. 

But for JFK, a sad clone who’s been suffocating his whole life under the weight of his own name, he thinks it’s terribly fitting for him to die like this. Terrible; but fitting.

His mind now made up, he emotionlessly grabbed the pills and stuffed them in the pocket of his sweatpants.

This apathy that was plaguing him should really be more disconcerting, especially since he was plotting his own death, but this lack of feeling was soothing. At least, it was much different from the agony he’s been feeling for months.

He lingered in the bathroom for a second more before leaving, taking in the final sight of one of the many rooms in his house, the house he’d grown up and spent his whole life in.

Yet, even though he’s been living here for 16 years, not a thing has changed. Sure, decorations and pictures have been swapped out over the years, but it’s just like it always is, minus the stench of vomit that was coming from the sink. If JFK had been under different circumstances, he might’ve even cried.

But not now. If he was right, it was now four in the morning, and he had no time to spare.

He gave the room one last glance before making his way downstairs, like a man on a mission;

a dead man walking.

He doesn’t stop in the other rooms he comes across as he had in the bathroom, mostly because he’d taken a quick look at the clock—4:34 a.m.—and he doesn’t want the slightest chance of having either of his dads waking up before he’s dead. It’s morbid, but he’s set on this being his ending.

He swung by the liquor cabinet once more, walking up to it like it was an old friend. 

In the day it’s been since their confrontation, JFK’s foster dads have installed a lock on it now. It’s fine though, only a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. 

After all, if he’s gained anything useful from being with Cleo, it was learning how to pick locks. The girl was a mastermind when it came to getting what she wanted, so that skill of hers was a given.

It takes just a second, a paper clip, and steady hands for him to get the padlock open, and just like that, he yet again has access to the booze that has done so much to aid him. 

Wrapping his hand around the neck of the first bottle he laid his eyes on, he retreated to his room as quietly as he could. 

The walk to his room is silent and slow, and it’s as if his body is aware that these last few minutes will be the last spent alive. Time seems to slow, stretching out the walk from the living room to Jack’s bedroom as much as it can.

But now… Now JFK stood in front of his door, face to face with the delicate wooden paneling. No mind-induced slowing of time could stop him now. His hand opened the doorknob, and his other hand subconsciously tightened its grip on the bottle of pills in his pocket.

Tears finally began to race down his cheeks. He was scared— _god_ , was he scared—but not scared enough to change his mind. Even though he was racing with thoughts ( _is there an afterlife? am I going to hell? will I regret this?_ ) he locked the door behind him and walked over calmly to his bed, tears and all, and sat down on the side of it, bringing out the bottle of pills and setting it on his lap.

JFK doesn’t write a note, a letter, nothing. He’d never been good with words, and even if he had been, he knew he would never be able to find the right ones for him, so why bother? 

Jack took a deep breath before leaning against the cool plaster of his wall. It’s cool, almost welcoming, and he stayed there as he eased the orange bottle open.

He started one at a time, pill after pill as he swallowed them, before finally pouring all of them into the palm of his hand, washing them back with a mouthful of reeking vodka. 

He sat there and he waited.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself; as always. As per usual, JFK is absolutely _clueless_ and _moronic_ and has to be walked through most things like a fucking child.

With that thought, his hand gripped the fabric of his pants so hard that he was unsure how he hasn’t ripped it. He felt defensive but even then, he knew it was true. That pessimistic, ugly voice of his was _always_ true.

Sitting there, he began to feel some… _effect_ take place on him. He felt as if he was slowly being lifted into the air yet being pushed down by the weight of ten dumbbells on his shoulder.

JFK instantly knew that this was caused by all of the drugs he had taken just now. After all, it isn’t a common feeling that was bestowed upon him.

Within the next two minutes, JFK had to lay down. He was feeling sick, his abdomen hurt, and his chest felt like it was going to cave in. Regret and realization popped up along with the thoughts of “ _oh my god holy fuck this is insane what am I doing I’m actually dying what do I do,”_ but he shoved them all aside. Sure, these feelings weren’t what he was expecting, but he wanted this. He had known what he was getting into by doing this, so he had no room to complain like the baby he was.

He felt his skin, which had previously been warm with fever, go clammy. He feels the impulse to grab a sweater from out of the closet (because _holy fuck he’s cold)_ but his brain is being rather uncooperative. 

He felt the need to vomit again—he felt it coming up his throat—but he refused to give in to it. He’s come this far, there’s no way he’s letting this sorry body of his keep him alive.

As he felt himself turn stiff and rigid, JFK started to reflect in a way that would’ve made him gag if he wasn’t currently dying.

JFK thought about all of the girls he’d slept with over the years. He felt bad. He’d just used them all for one thing: cheap sex. He’d changed, and just thinking of all of the meaningless and uncaring flings he’d had left a bad taste in his mouth that he knew wasn’t caused by the pills or alcohol.

JFK thought of his friends. He was sad to be leaving them all behind. Even if they hadn’t cared for him, he had. He liked seeing them, talking to them, but that sadly hadn’t seemed to be mutual.

JFK thought of his parents. He loved them, and he knew that they loved him, but things would be better for everyone once he was dead. He knew how much he’d hurt them over the years (with the biting comments that always seemed to escape him, those stinging mockeries that always seemed to wear them down.) but he no longer could when he was dead. 

And lastly, JFK thought of himself. Selfish as always, as evident by everything he did.

He hoped there was an afterlife. Maybe there’d be some sexy angels waiting for him at the front gates of heaven, or maybe even some sexy demons waiting for him at hell’s entrance if he’d really been _that_ much of a fuck up.

Most of all, Jack wanted to see Ponce again. He wanted to sit and talk like they used to, eating chocolates as they exchanged stories from their day, talking about whatever the hell they wanted because who could stop them?

A moan escaped JFK’s mouth, and he squeezed his eyes shut in pain. _Fuck,_ everything hurt. It was indescribable at this point; he’d never felt anything similar to this ravaging pain.

In his last moments, JFK broke. 

The carefully crafted persona of his clone father that he’d been building his entire life on was crashing down, and he was left as himself; himself in every aspect. No strings were attached to the original John Fitzgerald Kennedy, not even a mention. What he is now is purely _him_.

With tears streaming down his face and a chest that does nothing but _hurt_ , he can relish in that thought.

He knows that the last breath he’ll take will be his own, and no one else’s.

And isn’t that beautiful?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah... sorry about that.
> 
> i hope everyone stayed safe while reading!! ik it’s sad now (and maybe hits close to home with a few of you) but it will get better, which i know is mega cliché, but some cliché things are true. if you’re experiencing anything from this chapter, just keep that in mind and hang in there!!!
> 
> anyway, this chapter has taken a lot out of me to write lol. it may take longer for me to post the next chapter! i’d already written all that i’ve posted before even getting the idea to post any of this fanfic, but now i’m all caught up. so it’ll take a while to write it! hope you guys don’t mind <3
> 
> anyway, leave kudos or comments (or both!) if you enjoyed this chapter. if you wanna see some clone high art (or just feel like yelling at me on my socials) follow my instagram! @nocturmnskies


	5. and you said you were crying over him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Joan was concerned._
> 
> _That by itself wasn’t a very worrisome state of affairs because Joan was almost always fretting over something or another. No, the fact that she was concerned wasn’t anything odd or unusual; what was unusual was who exactly she was worried over:_
> 
> _John fucking Kennedy._
> 
> * * *
> 
> Joan is up unreasonably late one night when she starts to feel what she can only describe as dread. And the kicker? She has no idea why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, holy shit?? i am so sorry for disappearing on you guys like that, oh my god lmao. and especially on that cliffhanger JESUS, i’m so sorry.
> 
> uhhhhh i can maybe somewhat explain my absence?? ok so, basically, for a bit i fell out of interest for clone high (because gorillaz has taken over my hyperfixation) and i even met my current partner, who i love very much! but recently my interest in clone high has peaked yet again, thus making me want to write this chapter! i’m not very happy with this chapter, some may even consider it fluff while i try to move along and get to more action, but hopefully you all will be relatively okay with this update. 
> 
> chapter title inspired by “I Think You’re Really Beautiful” by Starry Cat

Joan was concerned.

That by itself wasn’t a very worrisome state of affairs because Joan was almost always fretting over something or another. No, the fact that she was concerned wasn’t anything odd or unusual; what _was_ unusual was who exactly she was worried over:

John _fucking_ Kennedy.

She’d been worried over the boy ever since he came over to Cleo’s house (and by extension, Joan supposed, _her_ house). JFK hadn’t been himself when he’d come over (something Joan had never thought would cause her to be anything but thrilled by). He’d made no lewd comments and had hardly even talked at all, something that Joan thought was very unlike him.

While Joan might’ve been doing the same thing the whole time her friends were over, she was different. It was in her nature to be quiet, to be more concerned with a book she was reading than some silly gossip about people she couldn’t give two shits about.

But that _wasn’t_ in JFK’s nature. He was supposed to be _loud_ , and _annoying_ , and a _douchebag_. He was supposed to always add to conversations no matter how dumb the things he said were.

And that was just his mannerisms. Not to even mention how worn out and ragged he’d looked the entire time. Sure, he wore that dopey smile of his, but it’d looked so forced and out of place that Joan just couldn’t let it go.

But apparently, JFK’s behavior and appearance went unnoticed, considering when she’d asked Cleo about him after everyone had left that night, the Egyptian clone had cocked her head and admitted that _she_ hadn’t noticed anything unusual about JFK.

“He seemed just like his usual self,” Cleo had said with a shrug, and the subject had been dropped for the night.

Only, Joan had continued thinking of it long after Cleo had gone to bed, and even throughout the entirety of the next day. Hell, she’d nearly driven Cleo insane by the number of concerns she’d brought up about the uncharacteristically quiet clone.

Even after all of that, Joan _still_ couldn’t take her mind off of JFK. 

Rolling over in her bed, Joan pressed her face up against the pillow her head rested on and groaned into the object.

Nothing was making any sense. 

She stayed there for a while, just breathing into her pillow, before rolling onto her side when she began to feel lightheaded. She brought her legs to her chest and rested her chin atop her knees as she stared outside the window, admiring the fresh snow that had fallen throughout the night; something that she hadn’t slept through, that is. 

It was foolish, but her thoughts had kept her up all night. She wasn’t sure what time it was now—five a.m. if she were to guess—but the sky was becoming lighter every minute, the black sky quickly changing to a sky of purplish-blue hues.

Joan sighed before staring up at Cleo’s bedroom ceiling. Her eyes were stinging with exhaustion but her mind was on overdrive.

Not only was her mind preventing her from getting the sleep she wanted, but there was also a slowly increasing feeling of dread looming over her. When it first made its entrance to the back of her mind, she had no idea what it was over, but now that the feeling was only strengthening, she could tell without a doubt what—or more specifically _who_ —it was about.

“Goddammit,” Joan hissed to herself. When will this newfound obsession with Kennedy end?

Still, her dread was pushing and prodding at her, and, like it or not, she _was_ worried. Perhaps it was in her clone mother’s DNA or it was a series of flukes, but Joan never had a gut feeling be proven wrong, for better or worse.

Joan rolled her eyes, frustrated that her irrational thoughts were driving her to do so much. “Fine, _fine_. I’ll just call JFK and he’ll be pissed that I woke him up and then I can _go to sleep_ ,” Joan said, talking to herself like a crazy person. 

Well, no crazier than the original Joan of Arc had been, but crazy nonetheless.

Running a hand through her mussed-up hair, Joan climbed off of her and Cleo’s makeshift bunk bed and quietly walked over to the dresser in Cleo’s room, where Joan and Cleo’s flip phones always sat while the two would sleep. 

As Joan grabbed for her phone, Cleo let out a loud snore, just another reminder to Joan that it was too late—or maybe too early at this point—to be doing all of this. And yet, here she was, following through with this very stupid plan of hers one that wasn’t necessary even in the slightest.

It took her a second to remember JFK’s phone number but when she finally could, she entered the number and waited for him to pick-up.

Joan frowned, biting her lip when no one answered after six rings and she was promptly led to leave a voicemail, but she hung up before the beep. Did she have the wrong number? 

Sighing, Joan moved to grab Cleo’s phone, scrolling through the contacts on her roommate’s phone. When she got to JFK’s contact, she compared the two numbers and frowned when she saw she had typed in all of the right digits.

“Okay,” Joan murmured to herself, “maybe he was just still asleep…”

With that thought in mind, she tried again, getting the same result like the one before. She tried two more times, each warranting the same response as the last.

However, instead of taking this as her cue to stop what she was doing and attempt to sleep, she grew even more worried over the jock. She knew, deep down, that something was very wrong, and she was embarrassed to admit that the thought made her heart rate pick up a bit.

What should she do? Something inside of her had been yelling at her that something had gone awry, and now, to top it all off, the meathead wasn’t picking up his goddamn phone.

What should she do about it though? With JFK not answering any of her calls, what _could_ she do? It’s not like she can break into his house just to check on him, and even if she could, it was a fair walk from Cleo’s house to JFK’s house, and the combination of her sleep-deprived state and the freshly fallen snow would certainly do her no good. She’d have to drive, but that meant stealing Cleo’s foster mom’s car, and that never led to any good, what with Mrs. Smith’s perpetually drunken state.

Suddenly, with that train of thought, an idea struck her. Joan could call JFK’s foster dads! Sure, she’d feel embarrassed about waking them up, especially if there was nothing to worry about, but it was better safe than sorry. Besides, as she’d reasoned earlier, it was rare for Joan’s intuition to lead her astray.

Her eyebrows now knit together in distress, Joan rushed over to her and Cleo’s bed, kneeling to the other girl’s height as she laid there, sprawled out on her bed, and settled in a deep sleep. Had it been under different conditions, Joan might’ve laughed at the drool trailing down Cleo’s chin, but the situation was, to be frank, somewhat dire.

“Cleo,” Joan hissed, shaking her roommate rather harshly. “Cleo, get up!”

When she got no response, she shook her again, harder this time, and pursed her lips as Cleo’s eyelids fluttered open, said girl shooting Joan a sleepy glare as she realized Joan had been the one to wake her up.

“What d’you want?” Cleo mumbled angrily, her words slurred together with sleep.

“Cleo, you have to help me! It’s about JFK.”

Cleo scoffed, moving to roll away from Joan. “Ugh, god, enough about Jack already. I keep telling you, he’s _fine_.”

“No, seriously!” Joan exclaimed. Joan reached out, grabbing Cleo’s shoulder to roll her back over. “I called him, like, four times and he didn’t answer _one of them_. I’m getting worried by now.”

Cleo shot her a glare and moved to sit up in her bed. “Joan, have you considered the fact that it’s—” Cleo’s eyes darted to the alarm clock on the nightstand near their bed, “5:27 in the morning? He’s probably just asleep like I would be if _you_ hadn’t woken me up just now.”

Joan furrowed her brow at the girl in incredulity. “What, so you’re saying he slept through the four separate times I called him?” Cleo pursed her lips at Joan, and it was the lack of a verbal response that let Joan know that she was right.

“Look, Cleo, I know this may sound dumb, but I have a gut feeling that something isn’t right and I’m not exactly being comforted by the lack of communication on his end! So please, Cleo, I need your help!” Joan said.

Cleo looked at her for a moment, no doubt taking in her messy, restless appearance, before sighing, a sign that she’d given in. “Fine, but only because I want to go back to sleep. What do you need help with?”

Joan smiled at her, but she quickly replaced her look with one of urgency. “I had an idea to call his foster dads, but I don’t know either of their numbers and I was hoping that maybe you did?”

Cleo rubbed a dainty hand over her tan face, her hand coming to a rest midway through her black locks. “Ugh, god, I don’t know one off the top of my head, but I think I remember Jack’s home phone number? There should be a landline in his dads’ room if I remember correctly…” Cleo said. “Don’t ask me how I know that, by the way,” Cleo sternly added as an afterthought.

Scrunching her nose up at the implication, Joan otherwise ignored that last comment and nodded, pulling out her phone. She signaled to the other girl to proceed with her train of thought. Cleo did, reciting the numbers as she remembered it, and once all the digits were filled out, Joan pressed her phone to her ear, unaware of how her stress was making her hands shake all the while.

After what felt like a decade to Joan, the other line picked up, and the girl was met with a very groggy “hello?”

“Uhm,” Joan said, her eyes widening. If the clone was honest, she hadn’t been expecting to get this far in her plan. “H-hi, th-this is Joan of Arc, one of JFK’s…” unsure of how to label the two’s relationship, Joan went with the first thing she could think of, “… _friends_. Is this one of JFK’s dads?”

A second went by before the other side responded, the person likely taking in the question. “Yes, this is Wally. What’re you doing up so late, sweetie?”

Joan flushed, biting her lip as she tried to come up with an explanation. It was safe to say that Joan hadn’t thought too far ahead. “Uh, yeah, I’m sorry for waking you up and calling you so late. I’m just worried about JFK, he won’t pick up his phone.”

“Hm,” the person—Wally, Joan had learned—hummed. “That’s not like him. He always picks up.” The call went quiet on both ends as they each digested the new information presented to the two of them. “Why were you tryin’ to call him, hon? Not to point it out, but it _is_ five in the morning.”

Blushing furiously, Joan coughed slightly. “Uh—yeah, I know. Sorry, but…”

While Joan formed her next sentence in a way that _wouldn’t_ make the man question her sanity, she also realized just how inexplicably stressed she was about this whole situation. It was quite weird that Joan was so concerned for someone she couldn't even tolerate most of the time.

“…Well, JFK hasn’t been acting… himself, recently. And it’s been kind of worrying me, especially tonight, and I just got the urge to check in on him and see if things were, y’know, okay…” Joan explained. Her eyes were darting all around the room, coming to a rest as she observed Cleo who was trying to appear nonchalant while also listening to Joan’s side of the conversation. 

Joan, meanwhile, gave a shaky breath, feeling oddly unnerved by everything that wasn’t reassurance; anything that wasn’t soft words confirming that everything was alright.

She wasn’t quite sure what she heard on the other line—phone calls were by no means the most coherent ways of conversation—but she could swear she heard an intake of breath. Her mind didn’t dwell on it for too long, though, because just as soon as she heard it, there was a whole new set of words coming out of her mouth.

“Just… Can you go and check on him? He isn’t answering any of my calls and I… I’m worried about him.”

Miraculously, Wally agreed, shocking the young girl. If anything, Joan had been expecting to be hung up on. Instead, the man, while not going into a lot of detail, also explained how he and his husband had noticed changes in JFK, most changes not being for the better, either.

“Sorry to rant there sugar, I’m just…” However, whatever Wally was about to say wasn’t disclosed as he abruptly stopped that train of thought. “ _Yes,_ I’ll check on him right away.”

Joan breathed a sigh of relief, a small sum of weight being lifted off her shoulders; not all of it, but a noticeable amount. “Thank you. Again, I’m sorry if I’m just being paranoid and waking you up for no reason, sir—”

“Joan, I’ll stop you right there,” Wally said, not unkindly. “I would rather you be wrong about your worrying than be right, but I don’t mind at all.”

With a few last parting words, the two hung up, and Joan felt ready to collapse in a heap on the floor and sleep. Instead, Joan came over to sit on the edge of Cleo’s bed, the Egyptian girl raising an eyebrow at her.

“How’d it go?”

Joan shrugged. “He said he’ll call back if things are okay.”

“I’m sure he’ll call you back then,” Cleo said.

Cleo was acting unusually nice, and Joan couldn’t exactly place why this was. Was it because she wanted to comfort Joan, who was obviously in an uneasy state? Or was she too worried for JFK, worried for the state of her ex-boyfriend?

Joan said nothing. Her gut was still twisted up in knots.

For a reason that Joan couldn’t explain, it felt like someone’s life was on the line. Joan could only hope that that wasn’t the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this chapter was so short, but hopefully this will be the first of the next up and coming chapters that will be a bit longer! no promises though, because i’m afraid i might break them 


End file.
